


C'est la Vie

by girlintheglen



Series: The House of Vanya Years [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, House of Vanya, Movie: The Return of the Man from U.N.C.L.E., vanya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Men from UNCLE are never truly far from their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelation

 

"You have the wrong number. Don't call me again …"

The voice on the other end was smug, almost condescending.

"Ah, but this is the correct number. You may have changed your office and camouflaged yourself with silks and showrooms, but we know you Mr. Kuryakin. We know who you work for when you're not sending models down the runway, and we know about your daughter and her mother."

Illya's heart nearly stopped at that. Was Nicolette in danger now, because of him?

"Do I detect some hesitation in your denial now? Please remember that wherever you think is safe, we'll be close by."

Click.

Illya slowly replaced the phone as a chill invaded the room. When he left UNCLE fifteen years ago it was supposed to be a life-changing event, a break for freedom after too many years devoted to other men's ideals and obeisance to their orders. Perhaps designing women's clothing wasn't the highest calling on the planet, but he had reserved some space in it for the occasional good deed or return of favor.

Then UNCLE had called once again, and the messenger had been none other than his long lost partner, Napoleon Solo. The reunion was bittersweet, the assignment a final chapter. Or, so he thought.

Since that fateful encounter there were several more missions, but more significantly, there had been Nicolette. The daughter he had never known was finally in his life and, to his surprise and delight, she welcomed him into hers. The fact that Marion was also back brought mixed emotions for Illya; it would be impossible to separate them all, and neither of them assumed or even wanted to revisit those days.

And yet…

"Darling, who was that? It sounded quite dreadful to me."

Illya turned over to face her. Marion was still beautiful, still intoxicatingly fresh and vibrant… the moment seemed suspended in time as he revisited mentally the last time he had been in her bed. Walking away from her had been difficult, but not as dangerous as staying would have been.

"It's just a disgruntled shopkeeper. I believe we were engaged in something very important … let's see, I can't quite remember …"

Marion kissed him then, not entirely believing that she was here with him once again. How the years had passed them by, and yet she had always had Nicolette to remind her of the beautiful, golden man whom she had loved, and feared.

"Illya, are we …? I mean, do you think it's wise for us to … ?"

"No. No, I think it is unwise of us, and yet here we are. You always were impetuous, and I … I could never resist you."

She loved him for that. No, not a love that would sustain them, but one filled with happy memories and heartache and … their beautiful daughter. She would always love Illya Kuryakin for giving her Nicolette.

"My darling Illya. You're right, of course. This one time, perhaps, we can forgive ourselves for being careless. This … one … "

For just this one time, and then Illya would have to find out who was threatening his daughter.

Early morning caught up with Illya. He had seen Marion off a little after midnight, a caution on her part to not be found out by their daughter. The prospect of explaining the tryst to the inquisitive young woman sent pangs of guilt into the pit of Marion's stomach. No less so was her own anxiety about being with Illya again. It was all so natural, so … so impossible. Try as they might, the three of them would never begin to make for a family unit.

Marion still resented Illya's sometime profession, and even more than that, she knew that he couldn't love her the way a woman needed to be loved. Security and long suffering, assurances and … security. Always security, ever since her father had been killed; it was the thing that drove Marion into the reticent Russian's arms to begin with. She had longed for someone strong who would protect her and make her feel safe.

It had been an ironic twist that she fell in love with the stoic young man who had told her to think of him as a piece of furniture or a hulking rock. In the end he had enveloped her in a pair of arms that held promise of an emotional strength and devotion unlike anything she had ever experienced. And yet, in spite of Illya's strengths, there had been unexpected weaknesses.

Marion had found his vulnerabilities unsettling. Her flippant comebacks and numerous suitors had become a stumbling block for Illya, and his dedication to work and the probability that it would kill him someday had driven her finally, fatefully away. When he walked out of her apartment for the last time it was with each of their condolences unspoken.

But now here she was again tangled in the sheets with the enigmatic Illya Kuryakin. For all that was wrong with this situation, Marion was certain that she would regret none of it. She also knew that it wouldn't last, understood that this was something for the moment in which they found themselves.

Illya had no clue as to the caller of the previous evening. It would require a watchful eye on his part, and perhaps that of his former partner as well.

The first phone call that Illya made was to Napoleon Solo. Even after a fifteen year separation, when they found themselves back in the spy game it was with the same precise synchronization that had marked their partnership in the early years with UNCLE. Neither of them wanted to dwell on the past, and each of the men struggled intermittently with the future of this new venture.

Napoleon, especially, seemed to thrive within the revamped New York Headquarters. If it weren't for his reserved respect for Sir John, Alexander Waverly's replacement, Illya had to wonder if Napoleon wouldn't easily step into the Number One spot as though the years hadn't passed without his presence there.

While Kuryakin tended to the daily needs of his design empire, Napoleon spent his days reinventing himself as an Agent Emeritus, the aging professional whose future had once been engraved in the annals of future events as a fate accompli within the knowing fraternity of UNCLE Chiefs. It came as no surprise to the Russian when Napoleon announced he was returning to the Command full time.

"I expected it, Napoleon. Perhaps not this soon, but …"

The voice on the other end of the call sounded confident. Napoleon was seated at his desk in his new office. He was home.

"You know something, Illya, this is quite possibly the most comfortable I've been in my own skin since I left UNCLE fifteen years ago. Wait, it's more like sixteen years now, isn't it?"

Illya nodded, his world suddenly less secure than it had been. He remembered the phone call from last night and wondered if it was connected in some way to Napoleon's news.

"It is a very long time between employment, Napoleon. You're quite certain that you are ready to be back in the bowels of Headquarters on a daily basis?"

Only Illya could make it sound like a retelling of Jonah and the whale instead of a career move. Napoleon looked around his office, no longer gunmetal and chrome as one girl had described it. The new UNCLE was softer somehow, without losing the intensity of its mission. Friday, Sir John's secretary wore ruffles instead of a tight fitting turtleneck; that image contrasted with a quick memory of Lisa Rogers and her acerbic conversations with Illya. Their shared animosity still intrigued him.

"Illya, I am more certain of this than of anything I've done for at least a decade. My company made me wealthy, so there's no need for me to look elsewhere for income. UNCLE is something that I still believe in, and even with the changes that have been implemented, it is the organization we were dedicated to for all of those years."

Illya heard it now, the zeal of a believer.

"I am pleased for you, my friend.'

The thought occurred to him then, the notion that Napoleon might expect his old friend to join him.

"I will leave this business to you, Napoleon. I have my own to manage. Just watch your step, I … Be careful."

The years had not dulled Napoleon's ability to read his partner. The hesitation was all he needed to recognize concern in Illya's voice, something unspoken.

"What is it, Illya? What do you know?"

A sigh at his end of the line signaled the need for a meeting.

"We should talk. Are you free for dinner?"

Napoleon found himself nodding.

"Yes. Same place?"

"Yes. Eight o'clock."

"I'll see you then. Illya?"

"Yes… I will if you will."

Illya's day was spent in conference with his staff. More and more he had turned over the design assignments to his assistants, those still hungry youngsters with the fresh ideas and the pulse of the 80's firmly beneath their eager hands. What had once been an adventure and creative outlet was now the drudgery so often encountered when the thrill, quite literally, was gone.

Napoleon's move was bold, no question about it. After being absent from the U.N.C.L.E. for so many years, to re-insert himself into the daily activities seemed a brazen move to the less brazen man from the Ukraine. Sir John had welcomed the enterprising American, perhaps in relief considering the organization the staunchly appropriate Englishman had inherited. He was a worthy candidate, of course, but lacked the vision of the Old Man he had replaced. Alexander Waverly had built UNCLE from the ground floor vision he shared with the hearty and brave men who founded the Command.

What Sir John brought to the table (although it wasn't The Table of old), was a sort of genteel approach mirroring the spirit of détente that permeated global affairs in this decade. Napoleon couldn't imagine Sir John Raleigh taunting an enemy agent with hidden cameras as he proclaimed "You're our animal now", his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.

No, Sir John was not Waverly, nor would he ever be. Only now did Napoleon start to see why the venerable former Chief started grooming Solo early in his career: Training was everything. Sitting as he now was, back at UNCLE HQ, Napoleon began to see his future as something very different from what he had envisioned just a few months earlier.

He was back. More importantly, he was ready.

At exactly eight o'clock Napoleon and Illya were seated at a corner table in the back of Innuendo, a deliberately trendy bistro for the deliberately unconcerned. Neither Kuryakin nor Solo were impressed with the chic clientele scattered about the modern interior. What this place did offer was a table with a view of the house and the street beyond, good food with a decidedly West Coast attitude and a waitress with blue eyes and blonde hair who sometimes called Illya Dad.

"Good evening, gentlemen. May I offer you something from the bar?"

Nicolette Lindsay-Kuryakin was not legally of an age to offer them a drink, but she insisted on trying time after time. With her hair in a ponytail and dressed in black slacks and a white tunic, the uniform of the restaurant staff, she looked more like her father than she did her mother Marion. Napoleon was reminded once again that he had no one like this charming girl to comfort him in his old age. Illya was blessed, even if he had missed out on raising the girl. She would always be a part of his future.

"You may not offer us drinks, I think we've already established that you are not yet old enough, although I suppose you can take our orders."

Napoleon chuckled at the new disguise his old friend had donned of late: that of a doting father. It was slightly unsettling to the solitary Solo; a description of himself he noted with some displeasure.

"Nicolette, you are a clever young lady. Too much like your father, I fear. I will take a scotch, neat. Illya?"

The girl smiled now at the sight of these two men she had grown to adore with typical abandon. It was no wonder that her mother had spent so many years warning Nicolette to be careful, be cautious … surely those were all things that did not describe Illya Kuryakin.

"Illya will take vodka, Stolichnaya only, iced, no ice."

She winked at the last.

"And since when do you call me Illya?

"Oh, I call you that all of the time.'

Had there been a very brief moment of disappointment?

"I mean, I'm at work, right?"

That seemed to solve the dilemma of the newness. Her father, Gerald Lindsay, the man who had raised Nicolette, was the only man she had known in the role. Suddenly and without warning, Illya Kuryakin had come into the picture in a very dramatic way, and there was still a bit of a learning curve to having this man … This Man … as a father. He was exotic and mysterious and good looking … someone out of her mother's past with a story no one had really explained yet.

And still, Nicolette loved Illya Kuryakin as though she had known him all of her life.

"So, drinks will be out in a flash and I'll be back to take your orders … gentlemen."

She turned and left the two friends basking in the warmth of her affection for them. Life was certainly better than before, in many ways.

"So, tell me about joining UNCLE for a second time. Or, is it a third? I'm beginning to lose track of your returns."

Napoleon looked around the room, his eyes catching a modern sculpture that was placed on one side of the door. It struck him that it could serve as a coat rack if it wasn't considered art. He thought it wasn't, actually.

"Well, Sir John and I were discussing the future of the Command, personnel and future objectives…'

Illya raised an eyebrow at that last.

"Future objectives being the tasks ahead of an organization that is rooted in the activities of groups like THRUSH, and the Cold War. That's all getting to be non-issues, with new threats emerging from previously uncharted locales. The world is a different place, Illya, and the role of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement must change as well. We can't let terrorists and hijackers torment the world at large while we sit back and wait for another mad scientist to appear. It's time that the good guys go on the offensive and ferret out the agendas of our enemies before they can strike. Intelligence is the key, and the placement of the right people in the jobs only they can perform."

Illya listened, his mind trying to unscramble what his friend wasn't saying. Obviously Napoleon had given quite a lot of thought to all of this. The drinks arrived and were followed up with the appearance, once again, of Nicolette.

"So, I hope you're ready to order. Let me guess, though…'

An impish grin instantly reminded Napoleon of the same face being made by Illya on occasion. The resemblance was a little scary at times.

"For Mr. Solo, Steak Aubergine… filet mignon served with a hash made of eggplant, potatoes and sweet onions. Blue cheese crumbles on top with a dollop of crème freche. For Mr. Kuryakin, Bourbon Glazed Salmon on a bed of shredded fennel and carrots dressed in a balsamic vinaigrette."

The two men smiled appreciatively.

"I think I'll have what he's having…"

Napoleon agreed.

"I'll have what he's having. Good job, Nicolette, but you got them backwards again."

Nicolette groaned; she was disappointed but not destroyed by it. One of these days she would remember that her Russian father still craved beef.

"Right… Oh well, c'est la vie…"

The girl broke into the chorus of a song, eliciting some applause from the nearest table before she returned to the kitchen with her order.

"What was that? She sings too?"

Illya was pleased, with Nicolette's talents and that he actually recognized the song from Emerson, Lake and Palmer's '77 LP.

"Imagine leaving something of me in the world that isn't connected to mayhem or evening wear. She makes me very happy."

Napoleon felt his heart knot up in a wad of disconnected, weary years of waiting for happiness. Illya's seemed so serendipitous, he could hardly be jealous of it.

"You have inherited something very good, tovarisch.'

The two men exchanged looks that defied any attempt to decipher. Life didn't owe either of them a thing in return for all of the sacrifice. That one of them had netted some kind of reward was extraordinary.

"As I was saying… or perhaps I wasn't. Anyway, my return to UNCLE is coming at a time when the organization is shifting again in response to the current global trends. Sir John is unhappy with his tenure, uncertain as to where he can take UNCLE. He has asked me to step in and … '

Now was the time, the exact right time for Napoleon to thump on his chest a little and gloat over what was coming next for him.

"He is suggesting to the other Chiefs that I assume the position of Number One, Section One, Northwest Region. Illya, Raleigh is offering me his job, and I intend to accept it assuming the others agree."

This then, finally, was Napoleon's reward. The years of training under Waverly's command had not been wasted. Napoleon Solo had always been destined for this job, had been anointed the heir apparent from nearly the beginning of his career with the Command. And now, in the most obtuse path he could have traveled, the former Golden Child of New York, possibly the world, would have his due.

"Napoleon, I think this is … well, you deserve it. The job was always waiting for you, I think. You just needed to see the world a bit before settling down to it. I have every confidence in you to succeed at this. Congratulations."

Illya meant every word of that speech, although he had been planning it for a while now. He had known soon after they each returned to the 'fold', as it were, that Napoleon was fated to remain there; the job had always been Napoleon's, he truly believed that.

As the two enjoyed a drink in celebration of Napoleon's announcement, neither of them could have predicted what was coming next.

****  



	2. Show Them How It's Done

Napoleon and Illya allowed the conversation to sit idle while dinner was being served. A new face arrived with a cart and the two plates were delivered, each to the correct spot on the table. Nicolette could be seen in another part of the dining room charming other customers, doing a creditable rendition of Marion; or at least Illya thought so. He was glad that the girl had inherited her mother's graces and personality. It wouldn't do for a young girl to be as he had been.

Napoleon noted an expression on Illya's face that directed him to Nicolette. They both sat and watched her, twin bemusement at fate's sense of humor.

"I wonder sometimes about how things might have been different.'

Illya turned to looked at his friend of so many years; he would need his help in this once again. Keeping his family safe seemed to be an ongoing venture.

"I really do think I could have been a good father to her, and not just a replacement now that Gerald Lindsay is gone."

Napoleon didn't have a response for that; he couldn't truly share in his friend's remorse over the lost years. He did have his own regrets, however.

"You're good for her, Illya.'

Should he continue? Napoleon had never approached this topic with his former partner.

"My former wife, Sheila, was pregnant once … during our marriage."

That drew Illya back from his own thoughts. The lights in the restaurant were dim, an aid perhaps to romantic rendezvous but not helpful when trying to ascertain the expression on Napoleon's face.

"You lost … I am truly sorry, Napoleon. Is that why you … Did that contribute to …?"

Napoleon jumped in and saved Illya having to verbalize fully his failures.

"No … well, perhaps it contributed to the divorce. Sheila was … is .. She is a remarkable woman. She was a partner as well as a wife, and is still involved in the company. Losing the baby was difficult, of course. She was never able to get pregnant again and … well, we just quit trying to be happy I think.'

For a quick moment a sheepish expression made Illya think he was seeing the Napoleon of twenty years ago. He recognized a gaping hole in his friend's life in that glimmer of recognition.

"So, we settled for being friendly and each of us … moved on."

"Someone is threatening Marion and Nicolette."

Illya blurted out that news on the heels of Napoleon's distress. It was impulsive and ill-timed, but this conversation had caused the normally reserved Russian to feel the intensity of his concerns. Napoleon didn't dwell on his interrupted confession. That was past and this was …

"How? Do you have any idea who it is?"

Illya was shaking his head, regretting that he had cut off Napoleon's lament about marriage and being childless. Something was wrong, life was suddenly not neat and organized as it had been for the past ten years. Life should be like a fine garment: laid out with a pattern before the cutting begins, sewn together with precision and then revealed as a perfect, flawless creation.

Life should be like that, and his had been for enough years that he had grown comfortable and complacent about it. Now everything was tumbled and disturbing. His child made him happy but concern for her caused a constant sense of foreboding that something would go wrong.

And now it had gone wrong, and at the exact same moment that Napoleon was being promoted into his life's crowning achievement: Number One of Section One, Northwest Region.

"I believe it has something to do with your new job, Napoleon. The caller mentioned UNCLE, and you. Does anyone else at headquarters know about this, besides you and Sir John?"

Napoleon didn't like the sound of this, hated that this event should be cause or catalyst for something evil in his friend's life.

"No, only he and I have discussed this. The only other people who will be privy to our plan will be the other four Chiefs. Surely none of them…"

Illya was stunned at the implication, but no one would be beyond suspicion at this point.

"You can trust no one, my friend. There is a traitor in the organization if the details are indeed only among you six men. I don't know why I am being dragged into it, but obviously they see me as a pawn of some sort."

"To what end, Illya? What can you have that will impact UNCLE?"

Illya absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, the meal in front of him forgotten now as his mind raced through various scenarios, each of which ended badly.

"I don't know. But, whoever this is knows us, knows our history and… unfortunately, the level of dedication we showed to each other back then."

"They expect me to do their bidding in order to save you … Not you. Your family. Marion and Nicolette are, in their eyes, your family."

Illya sighed without realizing it. The subtle din of the restaurant accompanied his dismay at what was unfolding, and in another corner of the room he saw his daughter as she delivered yet another rendition of menu options.

"It was easier back then. I could honestly tell you to just do the right thing, not give in for the sake of saving me. We were expendable.'

With a face set like stone, the decision was clear as Illya continued.

"They are not expendable. Whatever it takes, Napoleon, they must be safe from all of this."

The future head of UNCLE Northwest nodded in agreement. It wouldn't do for some burgeoning megalomaniac to think Napoleon Solo would be an easy mark. Whoever this was might think he, or she or they, had a clue about the Solo/Kuryakin partnership. When this was finished there would be no doubts about how it actually worked.

"Welcome back to UNCLE, Illya. Let's show them how it's really done."

**  
  
**


	3. No Wonder We Stayed Single

In Illya's mind there was a timetable that had to be observed. His life in the world of couture and runways had helped him to develop a keen sense of how things fit together. As an agent he had, of course, been able to follow a plan; usually it was Napoleon's plan. Kuryakin liked to know where he was going when his foot stepped through an open door, and preferred a well executed plan to the often haphazard solutions that were eventually the mark of the Solo/Kuryakin exploits.

People liked to remark on Solo's Luck, as though it really existed in place of talent and intellect. Illya Kuryakin was not proud of being an accomplished architect of mayhem, nor did he relish his daughter ever finding out about his life as an assassin. UNCLE didn't like to refer to their agents as such, but in reality Illya often had nightmares as his subconscious recalled the faces of men who had died by his hand.

Standing now in the dark of his apartment, there was no doubt in Illya Kuryakin's mind that he would kill again if it meant saving the life of his only child. And what of Napoleon? Their occasional missions in the past twelve months had not been as harrowing as in the old days; well, perhaps the first one had been close, but Janus was dead and so another threat eliminated.

Was Solo depending on another incarnation of the team that was heralded as UNCLE's best? As Chief of UNCLE Northwest, Napoleon would not be required to be in the field. Illya had no desire to be, not did he relish the thought of returning in any other capacity.

He would do whatever was necessary for the moment, and gladly turn over the daily operation of the House of Vanya to his junior designers and office manager. His inspiration initially had been the freedom to do something else besides what had consumed him since his youth. Paris had taught him to be daring, to take opportunities and use them at just the right time.

Illya sensed that the opportunities of Vanya were evaporating as surely as morning dew in the heat of a new day. His days as a couture designer were suddenly at a standstill, and Illya knew better than to try and coax more out of them than they could provide. There would be a new face of Vanya. It was that simple.

In his penthouse apartment, Napoleon Solo also sat in the dark. His only companion was the bourbon that he continued to swirl in a glass he had inherited along with everything else in sight. Even though he had enough money to redecorate many times over, the lingering presence of his aunt compelled him to let things remain as they were.

"Oh, Amy. If only you could see us now."

Napoleon spoke aloud to what he imagined was the lingering spirit of the woman he had called 'aunt', although she was barely five years his senior. He still mourned her on occasion, in spite of her admonition that he not do so. Solo noted again the lack of familiarity shown by Illya when told of the inheritance. He wondered if Illya had kept in touch with her, and fought back any remorse that might have made the wondering point back at him with an accusing finger.

The peculiar sounding beep announced what would soon become a constant companion to the brooding American.

"Solo here."

The other end of the conversation requested the presence of Mr. Solo back at headquarters.

"Is there anything wrong? Where is Sir John?"

The reply caused Napoleon to drop the glass he had held loosely in his hand.

"Yes, yes I'm fine. It was nothing … I'll be right there … No. I'll find my own way there. Solo out."

Illya's words came back to Napoleon and rang in his ears like the old klaxons at headquarters.

Trust no one, Napoleon.

Without regard that his line might be tapped, Solo called his only true friend; the only person he could trust.

"Hello …"

"Illya, how soon can you pick me up at my place?"

"Why, what's… now?"

"Immediately, if not sooner. Be careful, Illya. I think it's begun."

Illya hung up the receiver and reached for his jacket. Before picking up his keys he dialed Marion's number. It rang so many times that Illya feared his own head would explode from the agony of waiting.

"Hello…"

"Marion, this is …"

"I know who it is, darling. No one else has that voice, and what on…"

"Marion! Is Nicolette there with you?"

That tone made Marion's blood run cold.

"What is it, Illya? What's wrong? Oh my God, no… No, she isn't here. She hasn't come in from work yet. Illya?"

Illya Kuryakin felt the full weight of all his fears fall so heavily upon him that his breath faltered. In his mind he cried out to a God he wasn't sure he believed in.

"Marion… Call the restaurant and see if she's still there. If she is, I want you to go there and meet me. I'll pick both of you up there. Do you understand me, Marion?"

The pause made Illya nearly sick to his stomach.

"Yes. Yes, Illya… Yes… all right. Just …'

All of the years of deceit and denial rose to the top now, not allowing for any more of the pretended optimism that had covered over the reality of Illya's former life.

"Marion, I will protect her. And you. I will take care of you. Now, just do as I said and call the restaurant, then go there."

"All right, Illya. Please, don't let anything happen to our daughter."

"I won't. Now go, Marion. We need to move. I'll see you at the restaurant."

He hung up before Marion could say anything more. Illya was at a breaking point, his reserve of calm long gone in the wake of what he now feared.

No wonder Waverly had required his agents to remain free of emotional entanglements. After more than a decade his past life was still threatening to destroy what he had willingly given up.

Was there truly no justice for his kind? No rest for the weary nor for the wicked? At the moment Illya was unsure which he was, but woe to anyone now who tried to plunder his life further.

Napoleon was waiting, Nicolette and Marion were in danger. The dressmaker's life was threatening to split at the seams.

**  
  
**


	4. Phantoms and Fears

Illya drove like a man possessed as he shot through the streets of Manhattan, heading towards Innuendo. He called Napoleon to explain his concerns, where he was going and why.

"Open channel F … Napoleon it's Illya."

"Where are you? I'm in the lobby …"

Kuryakin took a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm picking up Marion and Nicolette first."

"You think they're in danger?"

"Yes. Why did they call you into UNCLE Headquarters, Napoleon? What's happened?"

A long pause was ended with a nearly whispered reply.

"He's dead, Illya. Someone shot him, point blank, in his office. It's someone within the Command."

Illya felt once more the icy fingers of treachery clawing at his throat. Janus had been a traitor, had cost the life of an innocent and what remained of Illya's commitment regarding the job of saving the world. How could someone manage this in the middle of headquarters?

"Good god, Napoleon! In his own office? Who else was present?

Napoleon felt himself changing back into the unmistakable shroud of the intelligence community; his guard was up and everything was subject to a scrutiny that bordered on paranoia.

"I don't know, Illya. The girl, Friday… was remarkably calm, but I've found her to be very competent. I don't think she's a suspect, but now will no doubt be in danger as well. She might have seen something."

Illya pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant. The interior was still busy with the late night crowd, and he spotted Marion in the front window; she was conversing with one of the wait staff. Having signed off on the conversation with Napoleon, Illya caught a movement near Marion that seemed to distract her from the conversation she was engaged in. A woman in a long jacket approached her; her face was partially hidden by long hair that hung over on side of her face. There was something familiar about her…

Too late, Illya realized the woman to whom Marion was now speaking was an enemy they had both known and beaten. Twice her plans had been spoiled, and Illya had killed her lover all of those years ago. With his heart pounding in his ears, Illya nearly broke down the glass doors as he barreled into the waiting area. What had he missed? Marion turned to speak to him, her eyes wide as she clutched at her throat.

"Gervaise … Ravel … I'm … "

Illya caught Marion as she faltered and fell into his arms; he had no chance to apprehend the retreating Gervaise Ravel, the crowds had swallowed her.

"Marion…"

Illya saw the pinprick then, just inside the elbow of Marion's right arm. It was inflamed, and the poison already completing its task as Marion choked out her last words.

"… loved you … take care of…"

"Marion, no… Marion…"

A screech from another female voice now fractured the crowd.

"Mother! Oh my god, mother…"

Nicolette was sobbing as she knelt down beside her father. This couldn't be happening; was it a heart attack, a stroke?

"Illya, what happened? Why is she …?"

The distraught man enveloped his daughter with one arm as his other still held her mother, who lay dead from some obscene poison.

If Napoleon thought the events of this evening distressing, he had yet to hear the news of Marion's death. Still waiting for Illya to pick him up at his building, the new Chief of UNCLE Northwest began to worry that something had befallen his friend. When his communicator began its warble, there was some relief on the face of the former agent.

"Solo here, is that…?"

"Marion's dead, Napoleon. Gervaise Ravel is behind it, and no doubt the death of Sir John as well."

Napoleon was stunned, not sure he had heard correctly what Illya was telling him.

"What? Illya, what are you saying…?"

"Marion is dead. Gervaise Ravel killed her, with a poison dart of some sort. She got away, Napoleon. I imagine you are in great danger, as am I most probably. We need to find out who within UNCLE is connected to her.'

A pause went unimpeded by more questions.

"This is about revenge, Napoleon. I killed Bufferton, and now she's after the people I love. You sent her to prison."

"And so she is gunning for me as well, perhaps to humiliate me as she was, no doubt, humiliated by her incarceration. Shall I call a cab…?"

"No. I'm going to leave immediately and come for you, and I'm bringing Nicolette with me."

Napoleon understood, although he wasn't entirely sure that UNCLE Headquarters was a safe place for any of them.

"I'll call Friday … uh, Janice. I guess she's my girl Friday now…"

The humor was lost, and Napoleon's voice trailed away at the realization of just how much trouble lay ahead. Gervaise Ravel was not a kind hearted woman on the best of days, and after all of these years and the amount of vengeance she was likely to be after…

"Illya, I am so very sorry. I know how much Marion meant to you."

"I'm going to talk to the police and let them know the details.'

The irony of life was in the details, he mused to himself.

"I suppose I should identify myself as an UNCLE operative?"

"Yes, do that. And tell them that Nicolette's life is also in danger, and that you're bringing her to Headquarters for safety sake."

"All right, I suppose there's no avoiding it now."

"Avoiding what, Illya?"

"I am officially working for UNCLE. Again. See you in a few minutes, Napoleon. Out."

Both men put away the pen like implements as they each resurrected the steel edged profiles of years past.

Illya had relinquished Marion's body to the M.E. that arrived with the police, quickly explaining the situation and his relationship to UNCLE, the need to take his daughter and get her to a safe house of some sort. In this new decade the communication between agencies seemed to be better hewn, with fewer hindrances to overcome.

Nicolette was still crying, a few friends huddled around her to save her having to watch as the body bag containing Marion was removed. The night had been almost celebratory before this happened; Illya and Napoleon had dined here only a few hours ago, and then her mother had come to pick her up, saying that Illya would be by to get them shortly.

What had happened to change the life of Nicolette Lindsay-Kuryakin in such a violent, hateful manner? One instant she was laughing and watcher as her mother joined in a conversation with Lucas Weller, one of the servers, and now … Marion was dead.

"I'm an orphan now."

The words slipped out as her friends consoled her, but no one contradicted Nicolette. It was so awful, and each of them knew their parents would receive a phone call before the night was over.

The restaurant had closed its doors immediately upon realizing what had transpired in the lobby. Within a few minutes the police were on the scene and by the end of the first half hour Illya was rushing towards Napoleon's building with Nicolette next to him. As the car pulled up to the curb, Napoleon was already exiting the door. Nicolette offered to sit in the back seat but Solo declined, not one to need a front seat, especially now.

No one spoke initially; Nicolette still sniffed back tears as Illya stared resolutely ahead. Finally, reluctantly, Napoleon cleared his throat.

"I am so sorry. I can't believe what has happened."

Illya didn't know if he could reply. His throat was thick with emotion, the image of Marion dying in his arms something that would haunt his dreams just as the faces of those dead men often did. And now Marion was dead because of one of them.

"Mother was so beautiful, tonight especially. She was so happy…"

Napoleon placed a hand on Nicolette's shoulder as the girl began to cry in earnest. Illya wanted to pull the car over and just hold the girl, but all he could do was take her hand in his and hold it tightly. The three of them continued on in silence until they reached the underground parking garage of UNCLE Headquarters, where they were met by two Section II agents and two additional Section III agents, all of whom had been waiting to escort the new Continental Chief to his office.

There was no irony quite like the kind that reminded you life travels in circles. The men had met Marion Raven during an affair involving Gervaise Ravel, and now here they were with Marion's daughter ready to begin the same hunt for the very same woman who had provoked their involvement twenty years earlier.

This time the beautiful blonde was Illya's daughter, and Gervaise Ravel's intentions were the same: Kill her.

**  
  
**


	5. Devastation

Illya and Napoleon ushered Nicolette through the halls of UNCLE Headquarters, not stopping to answer any questions or respond to the many stares they were receiving. Word had not yet gone out about Sir John's death, but many of the agents and personnel had become well acquainted with the affable Solo in recent weeks; it would not come as a surprise when the announcement of his ascendency to the top position was announced.

Janice Friday was waiting for the trio as they entered the office of Sir John Raleigh.

"Oh, Mr. Solo, I can't believe this, I…

Napoleon embraced the young woman, a glimmer of memory as he let his mind go backward to so many times when the news of fallen agents would reach the personnel in New York. Losing Sir John would be hard for many; he had been well liked.

"Janice, we have pressing concerns still. I need all you can give us on Gervaise Ravel. She was part of two affairs in the mid-sixties, along with her partner Harold Bufferton. Find out where she's been for the past twenty years and who she is affiliated with currently.'

Napoleon stopped and looked into the teary eyes of Janice Friday.

"We will find the people who killed Sir John, I promise you that."

Janice nodded her head, looked around at Illya and Nicolette and then left to pursue her new Chief's directives.

Nicolette was slightly awestruck by the surroundings and the command that Napoleon had taken of the situation. For just a sliver of a moment she forgot what they had just been through. It did not last, though.

"Illya … Dad …"

And that was all she got out before collapsing into Illya's arms, smothering him with her tears and grief. Napoleon's heart sank with its own grief at the scene, wondered how his friend would endure yet another loss for the sake of his life in the Command.

"It's all right, my girl… we'll make it through this. I'm here, I'll always be here for you … ssshhhh…"

The two stood with their arms around each other, silent consolations and shared grief creating a bond that neither could have predicted.

Napoleon stood by for a few minutes longer, interrupting only when the urgency of the situation began to beg attention from all involved.

"Illya, we need to get down to business. I'm sorry…"

Illya gave his daughter one last embrace, kissing her on the forehead as he was transitioning his attention back to his partner.

"Yes, and I think Nicolette should be taken …"

The girl was grieving, but she wasn't yet numb.

"I'm not going anywhere that you aren't. Just pretend I'm not here if you need to, just a piece of furniture or a picture on the wall, but I'm not leaving you."

She was emphatic, and so completely Kuryakin that both men in the room were left speechless. Illya had spoken nearly the exact same words to Marion on their first meeting. How was this girl so much like him?

"All right, young lady. I'll allow it for now, and only so long as it is safe for you to be with me. Do you understand?'

The look on her face was non-committal.

"Nicolette, I won't lose both of you… I can't."

That she understood. Nicolette nodded her agreement to Illya's terms.

Napoleon watched the two of them, wondering at the astounding events of the past year, of Marion and this girl… And now he was back at UNCLE, and not just back. Napoleon Solo was assuming the role for which he had been groomed so many years ago, by the only man who could have foreseen the need for this. Alexander Waverly had let Solo go, finally, but had never really thought of him as gone. The old man knew that one day, for some unforeseen reason, his two top men would come back and reclaim their rightful places in the organization that he had built; would re-envision the dream to which he had dedicated his life and career.

Napoleon sensed it now, felt Waverly's presence in this room. It didn't matter that it wasn't the same room, with the same round desk. The spirit of the man lived within the ideals of the organization.

"I think our old friend is here with us, tovarisch. I can feel him, sense his approval of our being back here again."

Illya wasn't convinced of it, but he wouldn't argue. Right now the only thing that mattered was catching Gervaise Ravel and making her pay for what she had done tonight. Revenge wasn't something to which the murderess could claim sole rights.

"Perhaps my friend, perhaps he is. Was any action taken immediately upon this being reported? We need a dragnet over the entire city and even into New Jersey. All ports, Kennedy and La Guardia …"

Janice Friday walked into the room and finished Illya's train of thought.

"I have a description of Gervaise Ravel on all law enforcement channels, and there is an APB. We have agents at all airports, and we're checking on seagoing vessels as well as monitoring turnpikes. If she's in a moving vehicle of any description, we'll find her.'

The pert secretary looked now at Illya and Nicolette, realizing for the first time the distinct resemblance between the two.

"I am so sorry for … your loss tonight. We all, here at headquarters…"

Kuryakin had never been good at this type of thing, nor was he now.

"Thank you, and for all of your efforts here … tonight. Sir John was a good man, he will be missed."

It was not enough, and it was trite and redundant. A good man? What an insufficient epitaph for a man who died needlessly and at the hand of a traitor.

"Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. Find her. Find Gervaise Ravel. Make her sorry for what she's done."

Napoleon put his arm around her shoulder, his sense of chivalry never more apparent than in these types of situations.

"We will, Janice. Now, what do you have for us?"

A deep breath and Janice fired off the information she had been able to gather on the woman in question.

"First of all, we do have a security tape of Sir John's office. There is an encounter on it with a woman, although her face is hidden. The crime is committed right there, on camera. He was speaking with her one minute and the next she drew a gun and shot him. The tape shows that there is a silencer on her weapon, although for the life of me I can't understand how she was able to bring it into headquarters."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks that bespoke years of silent communication between the two.

"She didn't. She somehow managed to take possession of the gun from inside the building. Someone is working with her; someone within UNCLE."

Illya stood with his eyes cast downward, seeing once again the stark silhouette of a gunman against the lights of an oncoming train; a girl and then the shot that killed her instead of Kuryakin. It was the same, always the same.

"How quickly can you get background on every employee of this office? We don't have much time, and security is only as effective as our ability to provide it for each other. We are the targets, I have no doubt."

Napoleon looked at his partner, knew that he was correct in his analysis of the situation. Gervaise Ravel wanted a revenge for which she had waited and planned for nearly twenty years. Killing Sir John was just the first step in punishing the organization responsible for killing Harold Bufferton and stopping their plans so many years before. She could not, however, have anticipated that Napoleon Solo would be the man to take Sir John's place.

"I want a total lockdown here; from this moment on no one leaves or comes into Headquarters. Also, find out who left the building immediately before and after Sir John was killed, who had any interaction with Gervaise …''

Napoleon looked again to Illya, asking for anything else that needed attention.

"Phone records. I want to look at the phone records for the past twenty-four hours."

The room had taken on a buzzing quality, tangible electricity in the air that was new to Janice Friday. These two would be a formidable pair, she could sense it.

"Yes sir, I'm on it. Mr. Kuryakin, if you'll come with me I will take you to communications and let you start on that log."

The Russian felt a wave of déjà vu coming on as he remembered the times spent in the old communications room at the old headquarters. Something about this new place made him uneasy, a feeling he trusted was also bothering his partner.

"The first thing you ought to do, Napoleon, is lobby to get us back into the old UNCLE HQ. This one doesn't seem properly equipped to fight back the forces of evil."

On a night that held too many heartaches, it was somehow comforting to hear Illya grouse about his surroundings. Napoleon felt the room suddenly warm to their presence.

"I'll consider it, tovarisch. For now, let's get to work and find Gervaise Ravel."

And so it began.

**  
  
**


	6. This Is What We Do

It was nearing four o'clock in the morning by the time Napoleon told Janice Friday to go home and get a few hours sleep. The normally perky assistant was reluctant to go, but the night had been a traumatic one for her, and she wisely accepted that rest would be a better choice; her duties were not over, perhaps only now truly beginning.

Illya had convinced his daughter to lie down on the sofa in Sir John's … Napoleon's office retreat. The girl had yet to truly deal with her mother's death, something Illya dreaded to confront for both their sakes. Losing Marion was still something like a dream, or a nightmare. The recurring image of Gervaise Ravel as she drew close to the beautiful blonde sent shivers down the Russian's spine as he remembered the final gasps of life from Marion's lips. He was unsure of his feelings for her, at once grateful and ashamed that they had shared a bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. He now understood why Marion had wanted to shield Nicolette from their on again, off again affair. The girl's parents had loved each other, and yet neither of them had the courage to make a life together, not even for their daughter's sake.

Illya's memories were interrupted by the voice of his friend.

"How are you holding up, Illya? If you need to get a little shut eye…"

The stern expression was the only answer Napoleon needed.

"All right then, what do you think should be our next move? Gervaise has help from someone inside, and based on the information we've gleaned from Janice's research, it can only be two people."

Janice Friday had proved herself to be an asset throughout the night, thorough in her research into Gervaise Ravel's history for the past twenty years. More over, the girl jokingly referred to as Girl Friday had been able to connect two UNCLE employees with the murderess who had killed Marion. It was these two files over that commanded the attention of the new UNCLE Chief and his former partner.

"What do you think is the reason that these two people have any reason to be involved with Gervaise? They're young, with no apparent hidden criminal involvement."

Napoleon was musing over the conundrum in front of him, not able to make a connection that would satisfy his need for some type of symmetry in this affair. Surely UNCLE hadn't been so sloppy as to hire people with obvious ties to someone like Gervaise Ravel.

"Look at their names, Napoleon. Do you see anything peculiar?"

Napoleon looked for the hundredth time at the two names on this list. Both of these people would be reporting for work in three hours time, meaning there needed to be something in place that resembled a plan of action by eight o'clock.

"Buffy Haroldson … Harold Bolero. I think the lack of sleep is stunting my ability to follow your line of thought here, tovarisch. The only thing I see… '

Napoleon looked up at his friend, a sudden realization hitting him as Illya simply nodded.

"They have the same birthday, Napoleon. Their names are fairly obvious… Buffy for Bufferton, Haroldson for …"

"Yeah, for Harold. Harold Bufferton. What about Harold Bolero?"

Illya let a smile slip across his tired countenance.

"Surely you, of all people, are familiar with Ravel's Bolero."

Napoleon leaned his head back against the headrest, allowing the strains of the famous musical composition to drift into his mind.

"Oh, well yes, I suppose I am. So, who are these people Illya? Why do they have names that reference a dead man and a woman who's been in prison for twenty years?"

Illya hated to consider it, but deep down he knew, instinctively, who the traitorous UNCLE employees were.

"I think they are, most probably, the children of Harold Bufferton and Gervaise Ravel. In the notes made by Janice, she mentions that Gervaise gave birth to twins while in her first year of imprisonment. The infants were given to a relative in France, but that's where the trail ends. There is nothing more concerning the children. Gervaise spent twenty years in a specialized institution and was released earlier this year after convincing the powers that be of her rehabilitation and remorse for her numerous misdeeds."

Napoleon was amazed at how easily Illya conveyed the information. People using their own children to carry out murder; it was unthinkable.

"And so we have the children working at UNCLE, gathering information and passing it on to their mother? Illya, that is extraordinary, and completely believable considering who it is we're dealing with. When do these two come in today?"

Illya looked at some schedules that lay on the table, looking for the names of the two Ravel children.

"Only Harold Bolero is scheduled to come in today; it is apparently Buffy's day off. I'll have Harold brought up here as soon as he arrives.'

Illya took a deep breath, the expectation of having to face someone involved in the death of Marion made him suddenly very weary. And sad. Illya realized he was incredibly sad, and he had no place in which to give vent to the emotion. Like so many other times, it would have to wait.

"I would like to interrogate him. I realize there is a tremendous conflict of interest here, but it won't affect my methods or me. I need to do this, Napoleon."

It was understandable, and with similar circumstances Napoleon knew he would feel the same way.

"All right, tovarisch. But just remember, we still need to get to Gervaise and to Buffy. We'll have only one of the three who have committed these awful acts."

Illya nodded, the look on his face morphing from that of the grieving lover to the hardened agent he could so easily become. Time had never been able to remove that aspect of his former life.

At eight o'clock sharp the young man known as Harold Bolero arrived at UNCLE Headquarters, ready to start his day in the commissary as one of the wait staff. Bolero had been one of several college students invited to apply for positions within Headquarters as a prelude to what might become a career choice. UNCLE like to present itself to college level hopefuls with opportunities ranging from secretarial to this restaurant environment. It was a friendly way of introducing the Command without the intrigue and drama that might come along later.

Harold Bolero had been one of about twenty students whose profile had fit the UNCLE mandates for grades and aptitudes that were compatible with the needs and vision of the organization. The other Ravel offspring, Buffy Haroldson, had also been among the top twenty; she had received a position in the communications section as an intern, something made possible by her fluency in French and Italian.

But, it was Harold now who would be first into the hands of Illya Kuryakin. Whether or not the young man understood how he had been used by his mother, Gervaise Ravel, was as yet unknown. Based on the security tapes, it was she who had fired the fatal shot that killed Sir John. It was almost certain, however, that without her son's help she would not have been able to enter Headquarters.

Before Harold was able to get into his uniform he received a message to report to personnel. If he had any clue as to why, it didn't show on the young man's face. He seemed to be pleased with the opportunity to meet with who he was told was the head of Human Resources for UNCLE New York.

Upon entering the HR offices, Harold Bolero was met by the man he had come to know as the assassin who killed his father, Harold Bufferton. Pictures had not done the Russian justice; he seemed younger than his fifty-one years, and just as cold blooded as his mother had warned him he would be.

"Hello, Mr. Kuryakin. I must say, I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Illya didn't offer any relief to the stern expression he bore.

"And yet, you did expect to see me. How is that, Harold? I don't even know you."

Harold Bolero smiled, a coy smile that immediately reminded Illya of the young man's mother. He looked very much like her, with black hair and blue eyes that seemed misplaced in the light complexion.

"Oh, I know you, Mr. Kuryakin. You killed my father."

Illya suddenly recognized the voice; it was the same voice that had been on the other end of the telephone the other night. Had it only been yesterday morning when he and Marion…? Inwardly, the Russian cringed at the thought of how this man was involved in her death.

Not wishing to look affected by that statement, Illya maintained a look of indifference. So, they weren't dealing with an innocent.

"I assume then that you are involved with the murder of Sir John Raleigh as well as that of Marion Lindsay. We know it was your mother that pulled the trigger, killing Sir John. We also have no doubt that you are involved, and are responsible for her being in the building.'

Bolero didn't yield. He wasn't afraid, he was doing this for mother and she had promised to protect him.

"What I'm wondering is, are you willing to suffer the consequences for her actions? We have you. If no one else is apprehended, then you're the one who will bear the price of her murderous ways. Is that what you want?"

The young man didn't change his expression, did not move. His mother would save him, he was certain of it.

"No court of law will convict me for something that was clearly the action of another. You don't think for a minute…"

Illya laughed, something that inexplicably sent a cold chill up Harold Bolero's spine.

"You misunderstand me, Harold. You won't be tried in a court of law. You have violated the U.N.C.L.E. while an employee. That makes you a traitor, and as such subject to our methods of punishment. Do you expect to leave here today? I hate to disappoint you, but you will never again see the light of day unless you give us your mother's location. It really is that simple."

Harold was unable to control his shock. He hadn't considered this as part of the scheme when his mother had convinced him to join her in this vendetta. He was unprepared for the finality of the Russian's statement.

"You're bluffing! You can't hold me here, I'll… I have rights."

"You have no rights. Your mother killed the head of UNCLE Northwest because you helped her to do it, and then she killed Marion Raven Lindsay. For the first you will be subject to the wrath of the U.N.C.L.E., but for the latter …'

Illya turned his gaze on the younger man with a look that could have chilled ice; his voice dropped down to a growling tone.

"… for Marion's death, you will answer to me."

Harold's heart nearly stopped at the look on the Russian's face. Why hadn't his mother told him about that?

**  
  
**


	7. Affirmations

Napoleon had allowed Illya the first opportunity to interrogate Harold Bolero. It was incomprehensible to him that a woman could train her own children to be murderers, but too many years with the Command had convinced that anything was possible. People were completely unpredictable regarding the extremes to which they would go to have power. There was a fleeting moment of doubt concerning his decision to accept the top spot here in New York, and then it was gone. He wouldn't turn his back on UNCLE a second time.

An hour was the agreed upon time frame for the first round of questioning. Napoleon didn't expect much, not if the son was anything like his mother. There were no reports of sightings of Gervaise Ravel, and now it seemed the daughter was similarly off the radar. She was not in her apartment, nor had anyone seen her since sometime the previous day. It was most likely the two women were together, in hiding now that they had done their worst deeds.

Illya had succeeded in scaring some information out of Gervaise's son, the prospect of being left alone with the Russian slightly more terrifying than facing Ravel. At her worst she diidn't seem quite as dangerous as the blond man whose threats of retribution were taken very seriously.

After sending Harold to a holding cell to further contemplate his tenuous fate, Illya met with Napoleon to discuss what he had learned.

The big office was a throwback to the previous occupant's English heritage. It was somehow not suitable for the new Chief, and both men realized that they yearned for the familiarity of Alexander Waverly's version of the U.N.C.L.E. It had been less inclusive, perhaps, with its female employees in their tight fitting skirts and flirtatious mannerisms. Certainly in the post-feminism 80's the Old UNCLE would have some explaining to do regarding the old standards to which many men, Solo and Kuryakin included, might wax nostalgic after a couple of drinks.

Illya disliked the room in which the two now sat at the oversized, Baroque inspired desk. He preferred the simplicity of that big round table around which all the agents would sit and receive their orders; Waverly in his domain and the knights of his order in submission to the needs of the many and the few.

"Our young Bolero-Ravel-Bufferton…'

Illya had to grin at the absurdity of the man's name, the cruelty of his mother in assigning it to him.

"… has decided to save his own skin rather than risk losing it completely to my wrath. I am still, it would appear, a formidable foe to some."

Napoleon had never doubted it, and would stake his own life on Kuryakin's ability to save him from any situation. It was not surprising that the young man had succumbed to the Russian's lethal looking glares, opting to save his life over protecting the woman who had done little more than give him birth.

"So, where do we go from here, tovarisch?"

The blond looked tired, suddenly every bit of his fifty-one years. He felt it as well; this business of losing people and righting wrongs was wearing on a man, especially now.

"He's given me a location, the house in which Gervaise has established a type of base of operations. She and Bufferton had quite a lot of money hidden away, as well as jewels that she has managed to convert to cash. Hopefully we can get to her before she decides to leave the country."

Napoleon waited, aware that there was more. Why was Illya hesitant?

"What aren't you telling me, Illya? It can't get any worse than what we've already experienced."

Kuryakin's expression became suddenly less stoic, his eyes a deeper shade of blue that beckoned comparisons to thunderstorms and turbulent seas.

"Gervaise has, apparently, been in contact with THRUSH. If she is able to get out of the country, she will be welcomed to THRUSH Central and awarded a position within the Hierarchy.'

Napoleon whistled at this revelation. Some things never changed.

"We must stop her from leaving the U.S. Napoleon."

"Yes. Yes, we must do that. Does Harold think his mother and sister are still at the house?"

Illya nodded even as he checked his gun and replaced it in the holster.

"Yes, he was supposed to me them there at noon. We're almost at that hour, and we have no time to spare in order to get there in time to intercept them."

Napoleon mimicked his partner's actions with the gun and then called in Janice Friday.

As she entered the office, it was clear that she was still in need of rest, although her attitude suggested nothing short of competence and expediency.

"Yes sir?"

"Janice, I need a car ready to go immediately. And Janice, no one is to enter Harold Bolero's cell. No one, do you understand?"

The girl known as Friday tilted her chin up and responded firmly.

"Yes sir, Mr. Solo. No one. You car will be waiting for you, sir. Is there anything else?"

Solo smiled, suddenly thinking of Lisa Rogers again and her no-nonsense approach to the job. Janice Friday was following in worthy footsteps.

"That will be all, Janice, thank you.'

Napoleon turned to look at his friend, wondering again at the loss of Marion, of the girl in the next room who was still sleeping after the tumultuous events of the preceding evening.

"I'm going to have a Section III agent come up here and keep watch on Nicolette. She'll probably want to come after us, but…"

"No, she can't leave here. Let me go in and check on her, and then we'd best be on our way. It's …'

A quick check of his wristwatch told Illya it was a quarter after eleven.

"We do have time, but there can't be any sign of trouble or else Gervaise will bolt for sure. I want her, Napoleon… I need for this to end."

Napoleon was slipping into his jacket as he watched Illya head into the next room to check on his daughter. He wondered what the girl would do, how she would react to the news that they were close to catching the woman who killed Marion.

Illya walked as quietly as possible into the room, not wanting to wake Nicolette should she actually be sleeping. She heard him and sat up, not trying to disguise the fact that she had been awake.

"Hi dad. What's going on?"

Illya's heart skipped a beat as he considered how best to answer. The truth, he supposed, would be the best.

"We have a lead, Nicolette, and Napoleon and I are going to check it out. I want you to stay here…'

She started to protest, but Illya put his hand up to halt the objections.

"No. You are not going with us, I need for you to stay here. Janice Friday is at her desk and a Section III agent will be sitting guard in the next room. I need for you to be safe, otherwise…"

Nicolette wrapped her arms around her father's neck, no longer crying but in need of reassurances just the same.

"Dad, I don't understand any of this, but I trust you. I won't do anything to get in the way, I promise. Just…'

She pulled away and looked into his eyes, the ones that were so much like her own. The two communicated more in those few seconds than many people could with endless words.

"I love you, you know."

Illya kissed her forehead and stood, reluctant to leave but anxious to finish this miserable piece of business and put it behind him. As well as he could put the memory of Marion behind him, that is.

"I love you too, Nicolette. I promised your mother that I would take care of you, protect you. I won't let anything stop me from fulfilling that promise. Wait here for me, and we'll talk about what comes next when I get back."

Nicolette was nodding her head as her father walked towards the door.

**  
  
**


	8. Not A Bit Like The Old Days

The day was warm and sunny, a contrast to the moods of the two men who walked side by side out of UNCLE Headquarters. The lobby served the role of what had been Del Floria's, although it was now the only entryway into the world that used to occupy the old faux brownstone.

Illya and Napoleon had discussed the obvious faults of the current set up, neither of them comfortable with the evolution of the Command's outward appearance. Truth be told, neither man was particularly confident with anything about the New UNCLE. So far, the original version was superior in every way, including its former stars. It was merely an honest observation.

When their shoes hit the pavement a car was waiting for the new Chief and … Whatever Kuryakin was currently was as yet undefined. What he would be, even less certain.

Illya took the wheel of the little car that was being surrendered by a Section III agent; a look of wistfulness lingered on the young man's face.

"Is he looking at you or the car?"

Illya rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture that brought a smile to Solo's face.

"Very funny, Napoleon. The car, undoubtedly. The Fiero is somewhat of a prize, I believe. For us it's the affordable UNCLE car."

Both men gave an involuntary shudder as they recalled the horrors of that iconic disaster. R&D had been forced to abandon car manufacturing after several years of vociferous complaints from every agent who ever drove the silver drone.

Napoleon opened his communicator to establish contact with Janice Friday. She would be coordinating the back up for this operation, something that Napoleon figured they would require soon after making contact with Gervaise Ravel. The destination to which they were heading was a house in Quogue, a small village that still offered a lifestyle that Gervaise would demand. In all likelihood she had a boat nearby as well, a luxury that she seemed to always find necessary.

"The boy told me that his mother will most likely be on guard. It may be difficult to take her without some resistance, possibly violence."

Napoleon thought that Illya didn't sound sorry enough about that last.

"I have six agents standing by, four more at the marina. It's small so any boat coming or leaving will be visible. Illya…'

In all the years spent working with the Russian, Napoleon had never before felt the need to ask this question.

"… Are you going to be able to separate yourself from the personal events? We should try and take her alive."

Illya understood the concern and the question. What he didn't understand was how to lie convincingly about either.

"No, Napoleon, I can't separate the fact that this woman killed … murdered Marion. She murdered Sir John and she wants to kill my daughter, me and you and God only knows who else.'

He shot a glance at his friend.

"I won't fire without justification, Napoleon. But I also won't hesitate if she threatens to kill again."

Solo breathed deeply, his own emotions were not yet settled.

"I understand. What else can you tell me about the house? Do we have a clear entry or is it going to require exposing ourselves in order to get inside?"

As the scenery sped past, the two men discussed the strategy they would use for capturing Gervaise Ravel. At five minutes before noon, Illya pulled the little Fiero into a parking spot just out of sight of the house he identified as belonging to the woman they now sought. Harold Bolero had described it perfectly in addition to giving the address. It was modest looking from the street, a bungalow surrounded by flowering bushes at the base of a wooden porch that circled the house. Because of the height of the porch, the only way onto it was via the front steps. If someone came in from there the glass fronted door would make him or her easily visible from inside the house.

"Can you still do those gymnastic tricks you used to be good at?"

A mild snort informed Napoleon that indeed, the lithe blond of years past was still in shape.

"I can get in from the back, and you my friend can knock on the front door."

That was the plan, just walk up to the door and say 'hello' to the woman who killed the head of UNCLE Northwest. It had a certain degree of risk, but it also said a lot about the man who would be doing it. Napoleon hadn't lost his nerve, and as Continental Chief it was unlikely he would ever shy away from meeting the enemy on his, or her, own turf.

"Are you ready?"

The blond nodded.

"Be careful, Napoleon. This woman has no limits, and is perhaps true to the meaning of her name.'

At the beckoning expression on Solo's face, Illya explained…

"Spear servant. I have developed an odd sort of curiosity about the origins of names. This one suits her, and she is, perhaps, servant or slave to the violence that this implies. In any event, do not give her opportunity to strike first."

"All right, and I would say the same to you then, tovarisch. I'll see you inside, then?"

"Yes. Here we go… again."

With that nod to their past, the two men exited the Fiero and took their respective paths to the home of Gervaise Ravel. Napoleon's was a bold approach, right up to the front door. Illya circled around to the back, finding a foothold in which to propel himself up onto the porch under cover of foliage that shielded him from observation. As Napoleon was preparing to ring the doorbell, the blond was scrambling over the railing.

Napoleon straightened his tie and flicked an invisible piece of lint. Some mannerisms were too much a part of the man to stop now. He pushed the doorbell, listening as the sound of multiple chimes alerted those inside that someone was waiting at the door. Even though he knew there were a half dozen agents close by, Napoleon had a momentary sense of unease at the thought of facing Gervaise. It wasn't the threat of violence to himself, rather the fear that he would strike first in retaliation for what she had done.

Instead of Gervaise, it was her daughter, Buffy, who answered the door. Her surprise was genuine when she saw Napoleon Solo standing on her front porch.

"Mr. Solo, I … What are you doing here?"

If she were truly unaware of her mother's actions and how they might provoke this man to hunt her down, Buffy's response was understandable. Otherwise, she was a pretty good actress.

"Hello, uh… Miss Haroldson is it? I am here to speak to your mother. May I come in?"

The moment it took for Buffy to consider Napoleon's bold approach was all it took for him to take command of the situation. He gently but without hesitation pushed the girl aside, entering the door as he withdrew his gun from the shoulder holster. Buffy started to object, but her mother appeared at the top of the stairs, quieting the girl and gaining Napoleon's immediate attention.

"Mr. Solo, I must say your visit here is not exactly what I expected."

Napoleon stopped to acknowledge the woman he had come to collect. Gervaise also had a gun, something that she now held in clear view, establishing a sort of stand off between them.

"Hello Gervaise. It's been a long time since we last met. Unfortunately you didn't gain any sense of remorse during your, um… rehabilitation."

Gervaise Ravel raised her pistol and pointed it her unwelcome visitor.

"I don't know what you have in mind, Solo, but I assure you my daughter's presence here won't inhibit me in any way. I'd just as soon shoot you here as in the City."

That brought a smile to Napoleon's face, but it was dangerous smile, something that should have served as a warning to the cold hearted woman who faced him. She lacked instinct.

The girl had been watching this little exchange with a calculating eye. Buffy was her mother's daughter without having been raised by her. Exacting revenge had been an easy decision for her, unlike her brother. Harold was weak, and no doubt the very reason that Solo was here now.

"My brother led you here, didn't he? I knew he wouldn't be able to take the pressure. Mother, give me the gun, let me have the pleasure of killing Napoleon Solo."

Napoleon saw a movement in the kitchen, the room at the back of the house and place where Illya had entered. His expression never changed, and he turned his attention to Buffy.

"My dear, you have not yet done anything that can't be handled with consideration of your mother's influence. You're not too far gone, yet. If you kill me, then…''

"If I kill you then I avenge my own father's death. How is that not the right thing to do, Mr. Solo?"

The voice that answered her caught both women off guard, something that allowed Napoleon to grab the gun from Gervaise before she recovered from the shock of hearing Illya's response.

"It was I who shot Harold Bufferton, so killing Napoleon would neither avenge your father or make sense as a tactical move.'

The blond moved into the room, his gun poised for whatever action might be required. As Gervaise continued to struggle with Napoleon, Buffy made a lunge for a cradenza where she knew a gun was located. Illya tackled her before she could get her hands on the weapon, but her intensity for revenge was fueling the girl. She grabbed for Illya's gun and the two grappled and rolled across the floor while Gervaise and Napoleon watched. When Buffy, whose strength surprised the agile Russian, was able to put her finger on the trigger, it was one quick movement that turned the gun away from Illya and towards the two observers. Napoleon tried to turn away but the bullet that fired from Illya's gun caught Gervaise.

"Mother! Oh, what have I done?"

Illya relaxed his grip on Buffy as she collapsed onto the floor, crawling towards her stricken mother. Napoleon and Illya were helpless to do anything more than watch as her grief consumed the girl over her actions.

At the sound of gunfire two agents had immediately come from their positions and entered the house, guns drawn.

"We're fine, gentlemen. Please call for a clean up crew to come in and take care of the scene. And notify the local police, let them know this was an UNCLE operation and that a murder suspect has been shot and … killed. Killed by one of her accomplices."

Everything seemed to be operating at full speed, and only the sense of déjà vu caused the room to come to a standstill for Illya. A woman dead, the grieving daughter…

"Illya? Hey, let's get out of here. Let these agents take care of things."

Kuryakin was only too glad to oblige, and he and Napoleon exited the house with little more than the grim awareness that a chapter of their lives was now fully closed. It hadn't taken long, and the result was what he had wanted: Gervaise Ravel was dead. The murdering bitch was dead.

It didn't help. None of this helped anything, didn't bring back Marion or help him to assuage the guilt of not protecting her. He had promised to protect Marion and Nicolette, but Illya had failed Marion. When that awful moment came, he couldn't save her from Gervaise and the torment of that woman's thirst for vengeance.

And now his revenge was complete, or should have been. He had wanted Gervaise to pay with her life, but now that she had, all it meant for Illya was an empty feeling instead of the cry of victory.

"Why don't you let me drive."

Napoleon knew the beginnings of his friend's lapse into a dark mood. It wouldn't do to have him behind the wheel and not able to concentrate on the road. Better to let him brood in the passenger seat. And why not? The past thirty hours had been like a bad dream, only when they all woke up tomorrow, it would be to the awful truth that it was all very real.

The only thing that kept Napoleon from falling into the same pit of remorse was his genuine enthusiasm for the road ahead of him. Claiming his spot as Number One, Section of New York and beyond truly was his destiny. No matter the years spent reinventing himself as an entrepreneur, he was meant to come back here to UNCLE and take the reins of this Region. His hope now was that his partner and friend would join him here. Together they could get the Command back on track and doing the business that Alexander Waverly had envisioned was the eternal flame of his cherished organization.

The drive back to Manhattan was mercifully short, all things considered. When the Fiero pulled into the garage beneath the new UNCLE building, a Section III escort was waiting for the Chief and his Number Two. That's what everyone assumed about Kuryakin, even if he didn't yet know it.

Little conversation had passed between the two men, and now as they made their way up to Napoleon's office, the silence seemed like a cement block; heavy and impossible to see through. Illya had only one thing on his mind, one person he needed to see and hold. Napoleon knew it, understood. Envied.

Janice and Nicolette were both sitting in Napoleon's office when he and Illya entered. Without any hesitation Illya went to his daughter, lifting her up off the floor into an embrace that spoke of their shared grief, of resolution and fears. Janice Friday was near tears as she watched the dramatic reunion, and only Napoleon's sense of respect for what was going on with his friend prodded him to signal Janice that they should vacate the room.

Closing the door behind them, Napoleon and his Girl Friday reviewed the afternoon from her office space that also served as a waiting room. The reports from the clean up crew were beginning to come in, as well as a call from more than one police department. The crimes committed and the eventual demise of Gervaise Ravel spanned several cities and jurisdictions. Only UNCLE would serve as a common thread to all of it. The two children would face charges, although Napoleon's first instincts were to show some mercy. He would take counsel on the subject before making a decision.

Illya and Nicolette finally let go of each other, the father almost unwilling to relinquish his hold on this girl who had stolen his heart.

"My darling, precious Nicolette…"

The girl's eyes were glistening, both from tears and how much she loved hearing her father's voice.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

Illya wiped tears from his daughter's eyes; hands that had killed were tenderly ministering to her needs now. Hands that had gone from violence to sketching dresses and cutting silk now had no greater purpose than to care for Nicolette. He had failed to protect Marion, but he would never fail her daughter. Their daughter.

"Yes, we are going to be fine. I promise."

Illya kissed her forehead, something Nicolette had grown to love and crave. Every little thing that was just between the two of them was added to her list of favorite things.

"Illya … er, dad…'

She smiled self-consciously at her continuing use of his name.

"Dad… I've been thinking, and … well, I hope you agree because it's what I really, really want to do."

In a sudden surge of dad-consciousness, the words 'really, really' seemed to strike fear into the Russian's sturdy constitution. Still, he doubted he could deny his daughter anything.

"What lyubimaya doch?"

Nicolette loved it when her father used Russian endearments, and she knew this was the right thing for her to do. She only hoped it would make this wonderful man happy, or at least as happy as either of them could be now… for a while.

"I want to go to design school. I want to work at the House of Vanya. I want to be a designer, like you."

Had he heard her correctly? Was this what he had built Vanya for, as an inheritance for his child? Sometimes, in rare moments such as this, life made just a little bit of sense.

"Yes!'

The shout had been involuntary, but it seemed to please Nicolette. Napoleon heard and took a chance on opening the door to make sure everything was all right.

"I think this is perfect, and I have no doubt that you will be a brilliant designer. You can work while you're in school, there's no need for you to wait.'

Illya turned to see the audience they had gained.

"Napoleon, Janice… Meet my new partner."

It would take a few minutes to explain everything, but at the end of it there was no doubt about the reason why the name had struck Illya all of those years ago. It would be truer than ever now.

It really was becoming The House of Vanya.

**  
  
**


	9. Epilogue

On a crispt New York morning, the new head of UNCLE Northwest entered his office with an air of confidence and destiny unlike anything he had ever experienced. Passing by the desk of his assistant, Janice Friday, Napoleon Solo felt every inch the Chief of this legendary organization. It had taken the newly appointed Section I Chief a few days to determine what his first moves would be in establishing his brand of leadership; Waverly had made an imprint on the young Solo all of those years ago that still held its vision intact. Sir John had done well enough, but the fire of dedication to a cause was Waverly's place in the memories, and now the mission, of Napoleon Solo. In a flash of past meetings and with the hope of the truly inspired, the new Chief signaled his Girl Friday on the intercom. "Janice, do you know what happened to Mr. Waverly's desk? Oh, and get Mr. Kuryakin on the phone."

The reformation had begun.

 


End file.
